It is true that I have a way with women. I believe it derives in part from my talent, for women do crave understanding, and in part from my own great need and hunger for them. There is not a woman I wouldn’t take were she willing and the circumstances right. But of course circumstances are seldom right; the constraints of society are pervasive and powerful. Yet I had never thought of Reba in that way before. She was, after all, about fifty years old, no impulsive young thing.
“But it is to locate Megan that I need Kife,” I said.
“You haven’t located her yet.”
Therefore I was not yet committed. I saw the point. I had shared intimacies with a woman a week in the Navy; it wasn’t as if I had any diffidence about sex. Still, I seemed to be developing it. “I don’t suppose you’d care to accompany me?”
Spirit just looked at me: answer enough. She supported me ultimately, which meant she had to absent herself from certain key occasions. Once I located Megan, I would not be dealing with any other woman on any except a professional basis. In that sense, it had to be now—for what Reba might have in mind.
I sighed inside. “Well, I have something to give her, anyway.” I searched out the manuscript I had written, which detailed my military experience. I knew that Reba would take the best possible care of it.
I walked to the indicated apartment and touched my forefinger to the recognition panel. It opened and I stepped inside.
A completely unfamiliar woman met me. She was about my own age, dark-skinned, heavyset in a muscular way, and with flaming red, curly hair. That would be chemically colored, of course; women had been dissatisfied with their natural coloration from the nascence of the species.
I looked again and realized it was Reba. She had changed enormously in the months since I had seen her last, but now the underlying traits were manifesting. “A disguise,” I said. “You folk travel anonymously.”
“We do,” she agreed as we sat on her couch. “I am trusting your discretion.”
“The last time I saw you, you were a portly fifty with iron-gray hair. I mistook your age completely.”
“Thank you.”
She was certainly excellent at appearances. Despite my ability to read people, I could not now judge her true age. It was more than a matter of dress and makeup; her entire bearing had changed. She was indeed a professional. “You knew I was about to contact you, and you knew where I would be when I did.”
“Your progress is my business.”
“I had supposed your interest in me would decline, once you got what you wanted.”
“We wanted an object. By the time we got it we had become interested in the bearer.”
“In what way?”
“You are immune from addiction. You have a talent for dealing with people. You are extraordinarily motivated and intelligent. We are interested in such folk.”
“You have not answered,” I said.
She smiled. “You are beautiful,” she said seriously, acknowledging my reading of her. “You are a prospect for power. You may have assumed that your talent is merely in comprehending the people you meet, but it is more than that. You also project, causing people to react to you more actively and positively than is normal. Men respect you and women love you. That is why you are potentially our next president.”
“President!” I exclaimed, startled.
“With your talent, your sister’s nerve, and proper guidance, you have a real chance-if you are lucky.”
“Who provides the guidance? Kife?”
“No. We merely watch. We are not permitted to interfere with the domestic situation.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
She smiled. “As I said, I trust your discretion.”
“You have it.”
“We are active primarily off-planet, and primarily as an intelligence network. But we do have to protect our agents and our secrets, and there are risks on-planet, too.”
“That is, you have broadened your scope,” I said. “And your employer does not necessarily know to what extent.”
She shrugged, not denying it. “Administrations change and lose track of prior directives. Organizations have an instinct for self-preservation, much as living creatures do. Abrupt changes in policy can interfere with the continuity of our own efforts—such as that to abolish the drug trade.”
“I have observed how you go about that,” I said dryly.
She smiled more warmly, evidently enjoying this minor fencing. “Changes in our personnel become problematic, too. I was not the one who tried to addict you, and I never approved of that effort.”
She was telling the truth. “Still, you can be as unscrupulous as the next when you approve an effort.”
“Yes. But I believe your purposes now coincide with mine.”
“Let’s see if I have this straight. You think I might get to be president—and do you some good in that office?”
“If you feel you owe us some favors,” she agreed.
“So we are bargaining. You will help get me there if I will help you when I get there.”
“This would, of course, be an unenforceable agreement.”
But we both knew it would be honored. “Yet you can’t do anything actively, on-planet.”
“Except provide key information—when requested. Exposure of our role would destroy it.”
I shook my head, the enormity of it sinking in. “I had thought to go into politics, perhaps achieving a position of power. But president?”
“It will take time, of course,” she said. “And it is by no means certain. But that should be your objective.”
“And you personally—what is your interest?”
“I am the agent on your case. My power within our organization will be affected by yours. As president you could, for example, designate me to be head of Kife.”
“Or I could fire you.”
“Or abolish the organization,” she agreed. “We take a calculated risk.”
Still, she was reaching for the prize. She could get fired for exceeding her authority, or she could reach the top of her ladder. Through me. She had the nerve to carry it through.
“Then your interest in me is commercial rather than personal,” I said.
She spread her hands. “Naturally I cannot deceive you in this, Hope Hubris. I am affected by you in the normal manner. But your sister is not the only woman with discipline.”
Indeed not! Reba’s will was steel, though she normally avoided showing it. “So you did not bring me here for any personal dalliance.”
She grimaced, looking down at herself. “Alas, no. You can do better than this.”
I was intrigued. “Can I? What woman is more intelligent or competent than you?” For, despite her matter-of-fact attitude, the power of her mind fairly radiated, and that had its own appeal. I had known beautiful women in the past; in fact, I still missed my last Navy bride, Roulette, the most stunning creature of the spaceways, but none approached Reba in intellect.
“Understand this, Hubris,” she said. “I was never an attractive female, not even in the bloom of youth. I learned to survive by using my mind and will and by extirpating illusions. I do not deceive myself that you could not have your way with me at this moment or that it would not be the high point of my emotional life—or that you have any such inclination. I admit the temptation to discover whether such inclination could be roused ...” She paused and made a motion with her torso that abruptly accentuated the salient aspects of her body from breast to thigh. “But I am satisfied to know you vicariously and to share part of your power when it comes. Think of me as a business associate.”
She was correct; she had stripped herself of illusions. But that motion, slight as it had been, had stirred an immediate response in me. She could certainly rouse the male inclination when she chose. “Do I really have reason to want to be president?” I asked, returning to business.
“Yes. It is the only way you will have power to achieve your design to eliminate piracy of all
types from the System.”
She was surely right. I knew that pirates did not merely swagger about aboard spaceships; they could also wear business suits on Jupiter. “But will Jupiter accept a Hispanic in that office?”
“That will be your hurdle,” she agreed. “Historically, no naturalized citizen could assume that office, even the purest Saxon, but today it is open to any citizen—in theory. In practice no woman or obvious minority member has done it. You will encounter racist opposition from the outset, both overt and covert. But the more serious threat is from the pirates themselves—such as the drug runners—when they discover your intent. All politicians express themselves against organized crime, but few are truly serious. You are. See to your own security, Hubris.”
I shrugged, unworried. “When someone takes a shot at me, I’ll take steps to prevent recurrence. I have faced threats before.” I lifted my case. “You will want this.”
She got up and fetched a similar case. “And you want this.”
We exchanged cases. They looked identical; she had seen even to this detail. Then I leaned down and kissed her.
She stood unmoving, accepting it. On the holo shows female intelligence agents are invariably young and voluptuous, therefore a real pleasure to pursue. Reba had to live with reality—but for that moment, perhaps, she dreamed.
Then I returned to my apartment, and Spirit opened the case. It was filled with computer printouts and fax clippings relating to Megan.
Was Reba jealous of Megan, the woman I had never met? Or did her vicarious fulfillment encompass this too? I concluded that I would prefer not to know.
We got to it. Megan, it turned out, had a considerable history. In her youth she had been a singer; in fact, she had been a musical star. Then she had entered politics and run for Congress. She had served three terms as congresswoman, then run for senator—and had the misfortune to run against another congressman who was completely unscrupulous. Megan was a liberal, concerned with human values and the alleviation of poverty and oppression on the planet, and her political record reflected this. Her opponent, an aggressive man named Tocsin, was a creature of the affluent special interests. He promptly denounced her as “soft on Saturnism,” that being the dirtiest political accusation it was possible to make. Theoretically the government of Saturn represented the comrades of the working class; actually it was a leftist dictatorship that suppressed the working class as ruthlessly as did any other system. Megan certainly had not supported that; she believed in human rights. But Tocsin hammered away at it, equating social conscience with Saturnism and therefore making Megan appear to be, if not a traitor to her planet, at least something of a fellow traveler. It was a scurrilous tactic, an open smear campaign—but it worked. Tocsin won the election. Megan, appalled that such innuendo and misrepresentation could deceive the majority of the voters, retired from public life. She had supposed that competence, experience, and goodwill should carry the day; she had been brutally disabused.
“That woman was raped,” Spirit murmured.
I knew what she meant. I felt anger that Megan should have been abused like this, though there was nothing I could do about it, two years after the event.
Megan was now thirty-six years old—almost six years my senior. That hardly mattered to me. Helse had been my senior, too. Megan had been beautiful; in fact, this literature quoted a remark that she was “The ten most beautiful women of Jupiter.” An interesting description! Today, she remained a most handsome woman, said to have a dramatic presence. I had no difficulty picturing her in my mind as Helse, as she would have been, had she lived to her thirties. Yet appearance was only part of it. The more I learned about Megan, the more I knew QYV had read me correctly; this was the woman I could love.
Megan lived in the glittering huge city-bubble of Langel, in the state of Golden—over a hundred thousand miles around the planet from Ybor. She was a pedigreed Saxon while I was a mere Hispanic refugee and discharged military man, recently enfranchised. She was a glorious dream, and I a mundane reality. I had never met her, and she had surely never heard of me.
Nevertheless, I intended to marry her.
CHAPTER 4
MEGAN
Of course there were a few details to attend to first. I had to arrange to meet Megan. I tried to call her, but her phone was unlisted, and the phone company declined even to admit she had a number. I would have more respect for such companies if they elected to tell the truth about such things; institutional lying is as bad as individual lying. I sent her a letter, but it was returned refused. She was evidently reclusive and not interested in being contacted by strangers. After her political humiliation I couldn’t blame her, but I was not to be denied.
We took an airplane to Golden. This time we were suitably blasé about the experience; it was, after all, our second such trip. We checked in at a hotel in Langel, rented an autobubble, and flew out to the suburb where Megan resided.
She lived in a very restricted neighborhood: a spoke village. This was not a bubble but a framework like a spoked wheel, turning in the atmosphere. Sixteen spokes radiated from its hub, each tipped with a mini-bubble about thirty feet in diameter: completely separate individual residences. Access was via hub and spoke; we had to park in the low-gee center and enter the airlock and formally check in.
The hub-guard was meticulous in verifying our identities. Did we have an appointment? No? Well, he would call the condo owner and pass us through if she cleared us. Otherwise we would have to depart. He was very polite but very firm. I knew from my reading of him that he was not bluffing; it was his mission to protect the privacy of the residents, and he was dedicated to it.
He buzzed Megan’s unit, got an answer, and frowned. “I am sorry, sir. She does not care to see you.”
“Please,” I said. “This is important! At least let me speak to her on the com.”
“As you wish, sir.” He regarded it as a challenge to maintain absolute courtesy in the face of persistent intruders. He buzzed her again. “The visitor wishes to address you via this unit, ma’am. Will you accede?”
This time we heard her voice, though we could not see her face in the dark screen. “I do not talk with strangers, Mr. Bruce. Thank you.”
He looked up again. “She declines, sir. Please depart now.”
Desperately I cast about for some lever of acquaintance. I knew that once I talked with her I could impress her with my sincerity, but first I had to get her attention. What could I say to a woman who refused to listen?
“She was a singer,” Spirit murmured.
I grasped at that straw. “Tell her Captain Hubris will sing her his song!” I exclaimed. “She need only listen, then I will go. Surely she will grant this much to one who has crossed the planet to meet her.”
Mr. Bruce, plainly impatient with this nonsense, nevertheless buzzed her once more. “Ma’am, he is insistent. He promises to depart if you will listen to his song.” There was a pause, then he repeated, “Captain Hubris.” He was evidently answering her query. “He says he has crossed the planet to meet you. There is a woman with him.” He paused again. Then he glanced at me. “Sing your song, sir.” At this point his emotions were mixed. It was obvious that he did not approve of this, but it did offer relief from the dullness of the routine; he would be able to regale associates with the story of the intruder who insisted on singing to a resident who didn’t want to see him.
I sang my song. In the Navy I had required every person in my command to master one song, the song that identified him or her. This one was my own: Worried Man Blues.
It takes a worried man to sing a worried song
It takes a worried man to sing a worried song
It takes a worried man to sing a worried song
I’m worried now, but I won’t be worried long.
I sang all the verses and refrains without response. Had she disconnected? Was she listening? I could only hope. Hope was very much my name now.
When I stopped, the guard listened to the c
om, then looked up once more. “Who is the woman with you, Captain?”
“My sister, Spirit Hubris.”
“Does she also sing?”
For answer Spirit sang her song:
I know where I’m going, and I know who’s going with me;
I know who I love, but the dear knows who I’ll marry.
When she stopped, we heard Megan’s voice clearly. “Miss Hubris, you love your brother, don’t you?”
“I do,” Spirit agreed.
“I will see them, Mr. Bruce.”
“As you wish, ma’am,” the man agreed gruffly. He was startled by this abrupt reversal.
We took the shaft down, riding the lift within the spoke, feeling the twisting gee increase as we descended, exactly as if we were in a city-bubble. There was a landing at the bottom, and a door. We knocked on it. It opened; we entered and found ourselves at the top of a flight of archaic stairs. We stepped down these and arrived at the residential floor of an old-fashioned apartment. There were pretty pictures of operatic scenes on the walls, and there was deep, plush carpeting on the floor. To one side was a mini mock piano, the kind that was electronic but was crafted to resemble the historical article. In the center stood the regal figure of Megan.
I remembered her picture, made when she was not yet sixteen. Now she was twenty years older, but the beauty of her youth had not paled; it had matured. The more recent pictures in the material QYV had given me had suggested it; life confirmed it.
“It is not often I am visited by military personnel,” she remarked.
“Retired,” I said. “We are civilians now.”